Shortly after his request to meet outside, Leonardo had pulled on his coat and various layers for the cold, although his pink cheeks and blood rushing through his veins almost made him feel like he'll self-heat soon. He kept going back and forth in his mind about this, between anxiety and nerves that perhaps this was too much or he was still uncertain, and then excitement and the thrill of having fuzzy feelings returned.

Alistair was a great man. He was handsome and competent and he fought dragons. He was a powerful fighter who survived trauma, and Leonardo wanted to soothe his hurts from day one. But he does seem rather grand, in comparison to a simple painter. He wondered what this walk could mean or where it could go, and while his cowardly self wanted to run, he was growing a solid backbone. He could do this. He wanted to do this.

He waited for Alistair, wishing he had distractions in his mind, but none of them would have worked. He was too fixated on this walk, on this man. Wherever it led them.